


don't write yourself off yet

by stvrwar



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Universe - Muggle, Gay Percy Weasley, M/M, POV Percy Weasley, Phone Sex, Rare Pairings, awkward Percy doesn't know what to do with himself, this was supposed to be sooooo much different but turned into like...a character study?????
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-06
Updated: 2018-05-06
Packaged: 2019-05-02 22:20:16
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,511
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14554755
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/stvrwar/pseuds/stvrwar
Summary: Percy Weasley is a mess. An organized, put together mess. And he's tired of it, tired of his family and their looks and judgement and-- maybe that sends him off the deep-end. Because when Bill announces his engagement party, maybe Percy says he has a date. How hard can it be to find a fake date?





	don't write yourself off yet

**Author's Note:**

> okay wow so this has been in my drafts for a year and it's all over the goddamn place but I just needed to post it. it includes phone sex which is maybe super out of place but i do NOt Care. I would call it a fake dating AU but it's so much weirder than that. And they like. never fake date. And Oliver is from the American South Bc have y'all ever met a southerner? They are fucking insane about their football.
> 
> THERE. IS. NO. SEQUEL. THERE WON’T BE A DIRECT FUCKING SEQUEL. STOP ASKING PLEASE.

**7 WEEKS**

He’d had expectations. Percy Weasley’d had goddamn  _ expectations _ for his life.

Everything started with law school. He would be top of his class and get offered a job at a firm before he graduated. He’d make partner in under ten years (five, if he was cocky and a little too tipsy off the bottle of red he keeps tucked behind the biscuits above his fridge). From there, he would begin his political career. Next came public office and then the ladder was endless and his to climb. Throw in a white picket fence and a minimum ten-mile radius from his family at any given time, and things would be just how he wanted. Just how he  _ planned _ . He had a  _ binder _ and  _ everything _ .

Instead.

Charlie throws back another shot, slams the glass down on the grass skirt wrapped table, coughs once. The bar is too crowded. Why a person would want to come to a tiki bar, much less enough people to raise the temperature in the room, is a mystery.

But Percy’s already been forced to unbutton the first of two buttons peeking over the collar of his sweater vest and he’s nursing a dented, room temperature water bottle. Bill is laughing about something, too loud, clapping Ron on the back.

Ukulele-heavy music blasts over the speakers and the décor is bordering on blatant cultural appropriation but everyone's too drunk on fruity cocktails to seem to care.

Percy sips his water.

Who is he kidding? If they decided that Tiki Torch Tony’s was the place they wanted to waste their Friday night, they couldn’t possibly care about cultural appropriation to begin with.

“Dude, you gotta fucking-“ Charlie pauses, gestures toward  _ all of him,  _ barrels forward, “-unclench or something. You haven’t even touched the table. That’s  _ weird _ .”

Percy frowns. “I don’t need to…  _ unclench _ . I’m not clenching anything. I would just like to leave,” he sniffs, reaches forward to touch the table just to make a fucking point. It’s sticky.

See.

_ This _ is why he wasn’t touching the table.

Ron clocks his immediate regret after touching the table. Snorts. “We’re here to celebrate. Bill’s just got fucking engaged and you’re being a-”

“-stick in the mud?” Fred suggests as he sidles up to the group. He pushes in between Percy and the wall. Whatever ungodly blue drink in his halved-coconut-glass-he-special-ordered-at-the-bar splashes onto the knee of Percy’s khakis. His freshly dry cleaned and steam pressed khakis.

He exhales a sharp breath through his teeth as George squeezes in on his opposite side with the apparent other half of Fred’s coconut.

“Exactly. A stick in the mud,” Ron finishes. Fred stretches over to clink glasses with George and Percy sinks back into the fucking wall to avoid any more spills. He takes another labored breath.

“Mom’s gonna want to throw a party, which means Ginny’s got to bring Viktor,” George says, grinning.

Ginny- who somehow arrived without his noticing- rolls her eyes. “You’ve all met him. Why is it such a big deal that I’m dating someone? It’s none of your business first off, and more importantly, Bill literally just got  _ engaged _ .” She’s drinking a beer. At least Percy can understand  _ that _ .

“Uh, he’s literally a famous football player. Like, Ron definitely has a crush on him.” Percy doesn’t catch who says it because Ron is already blustering that  _ no, he definitely does not nor has he ever had a crush on Viktor Krum, thank you very much _ .

He just wants to go home and feed his cat and review for the upcoming trial. The trial he is only assisting in. The trial that will have him sitting in the audience and not behind a table. That trial.

He unfastens the second button on his shirt. He is  _ wilting _ .  

“What about you then, Perce?” George asks, leaning in too close with his vibrant drink sloshing something dangerous over his khakis.

Fred grins. “Anyone special we don’t know about?” He leans in as well and Percy wants to sink into the floor because.

Well. They are all staring at him and they all expect him to say no because why wouldn’t he say no?

He's  _ Percy _ and he doesn’t date. He studies cases and he fetches coffees and he organizes his socks by length  _ and _ color and he’s had the same worn satchel since his second year of university and he doesn’t drink at bars and every cat he’s ever owned has been named Vincent because it means he can reuse the collar for the sake of practicality and he's certain his family doesn't even know that he isn't  _ straight _ for goodness sakes…

“Yeah. There is.” He sips his water to hide the panic crawling up his throat.

Two hours and seventeen minutes later, he calls an Uber (he has a 5-star rating, thanks) to take him back to his apartment, a tidy looking brownstone he’s renting from a former professor. He toes out of his shoes on the rug in the entrance, slips them onto the shoe rack and hangs his jacket on the third peg from the door.

Percy closes the blinds, checks his locks, and finally pulls out his phone and opens the app store. This was not a part of the plan.

He hesitates, his thumb hovering over the “download” button before he closes his eyes and presses down.

This was  _ really _ not a part of the plan.

He watches as the orange masked logo appears on his home screen.

He taps open Grindr and feels  _ dirty _ .  

The profile information is simple enough, though he doesn’t have any selfies that feel right. He decides on the headshot for the firm’s website. His hair looks cooperative in the picture and he's wearing his favorite bow tie. It's a good picture, he thinks.

Say something about himself? Percy pauses.

“Looking for a date to prove my family wrong,” he types.

He hits enter.

Somewhere in his filing cabinets, his binders are  _ screaming _ .

-

_ is that a bill nye cosplay _

_ - _

_ got a 10in dick u intrstd _

_ - _

_ u me & the back of my sickass pickup truck what do you say? _

_ - _

**SIX WEEKS**

Grindr, Percy decides, is a mistake, an experiment in disaster, a fine line bordering between dirty bathroom sex and getting murdered in an alley by a frat boy.

He’d done his research before. Too drunk on his customary bottle of red, but he had done his research. Let it be known that Percy Weasley was never a sloppy drunk. His shirt had stayed tucked in for Christ’s sake.

But.

He remembers being drunk, typing questions he would never dare voice aloud into Google.

_ “how to tell your family you’re gay” _

_ “LGBT dating” _

_ “dating apps for gay men” _

_ “what to do if your family is mad that you’re gay” _

_ “what is Grindr” _

_ “how to use Grindr” _

But.

Grindr was a  _ mistake _ .

He’s gotten a few messages here and there, most asking for dick pics, a few containing unsolicited dick pics, most mentioning dick somewhere in the text. Why did he do this to himself? If he sees the phrase “no fems” one more time he may just delete the app all together.

There’s a niggling feeling in his gut about all of this. The trial is all but looming. The party for Bill’s engagement is certainly looming.

_ Why _ is he doing this to himself?

Percy settles into his arm chair, newspaper in his lap. NPR plays on the satellite radio station on his television and his tea is almost cool enough to drink. Vincent curls himself onto the back of the chair, his tail brushing against Percy’s ear and he feels okay.

He feels like  _ himself _ .

That’s when a message comes through on his phone.

_ ‘do you play soccer because you’re definitely a keeper ;)’ _

And the lack of punctuation is abhorrent, but the message doesn’t contain the word “dick,” and Percy’s reached the point in his life that it feels close enough to a win.

**_‘I don’t play any sports, so I feel the reference has gone over my head.’_** He responds. He sets his phone on his lap, pushes his glasses up the bridge of his nose with one finger, picks up his phone and clicks the stranger’s profile.

Oliver W.

And. Just. Percy blinks once. Adjusts his glasses. Is Oliver sure he messaged the right man because.

The first picture is all long limbs and the violent red of a jersey, blinding white teeth, a nose bumped as if once broken. He can see the vein in his throat, head thrown back in a laugh. And Percy cannot possibly be his type.

The next picture is shirtless, muddied, cleats tied and dangling over one shoulder, a football under one arm. So he’s an athlete. That explains the pun.

_ ‘ah well, I could always try a different line?’ _

_ ‘that’s a lie, okay, I only know sports lines’ _

_ ‘but who doesn’t like sports lines? other than you I mean’ _

Percy almost laughs. Vincent startles.

**_‘My family is big on sports, but I have never grasped the thrill.’_ ** He hits send _.  _ Oliver hardly takes any time to respond.

_ ‘the same family you’re trying to find a date to piss off or something?’ _

_ ‘bc dude this probably wasn’t the app to do this on. like craigslist or something. tinder.’ _

Percy sips his tea, rubs his temples. He should have done more research.

**_‘I figured the likelihood of being harassed was lesser considering this is a gay dating app.’_** It felt perfectly rational.

He’d seen too many dicks over the past week for that to be the truth.

Vincent has repositioned himself from the back of his seat into his lap, butting his head into Percy’s hand with insistence. He obliges with a scratch behind his folded ears.

_ ‘u can set ur profile for only men on tinder pointdexter’  _ Percy flushes. He  _ really  _ should have done more research. 

He purses his lips and looks to Vincent for some sort of consolation, only to find that he’s asleep. **_‘If you’re just going to mock me, we can end the conversation now.’_** He taps the send button with a firm “hmph” to no one apparent and decides that he’s better off focusing on NPR than Oliver W. and his well defined chest. And arms. And calves. 

_ ‘lol ngl, Im intrigued. so, I’ll be your fake date. Let’s meet up.’  _

-

**FIVE WEEKS**

His leg won’t stop bouncing, fingers drumming in a precise rhythm against his thigh. Onetwothree. Onetwothree. Onetwothree. He’d not spoken much at all with Oliver since agreeing to meet for a coffee to discuss what he had referred to as their “game plan.” And while he could have left the terminology, he wasn’t, by any means, going to complain about having an honest to god plan in place for what was undoubtedly set to be the most humiliating experience of his life. 

But he’s sick and he’s  tired of it, his family and their jokes and jabs and sideways looks about his life. He’d left, years ago, when he’d left for college. He’d told them they were dragging him down, that they were...that they weren’t fit for the life he’d wanted. Childish, yes, and equally as cruel, but he was human and could only fucking handle so much of them.

They hadn’t apologized. Neither had he. And so every exchange was fraught with tension no one wanted to address. 

He doesn’t plan on addressing it. 

Percy glances down at the well-polished watch on his wrist, leg still bouncing. Oliver is three minutes late. He’s probably isn’t coming. Undoubtedly, this was just some sort of joke to him. A cruel sort of joke, but a joke and he’s rather used to cruel jokes but this somehow stung--

“Fuck, sorry I’m running late. My team didn’t want to get their asses into gear and we’ve got a fucking game in three days and that isn’t the type of attitude they should have with that shit right around the corner, so I had to make them run a few extra laps before they could shower up.” A man throws himself down in the seat across from Percy as he speaks, rapidfire and without preface. 

Percy startles, brows rising closer and closer to his hairline because. Okay. He hadn’t been prepared. 

Yes, he’d known what Oliver looked like from his photos. But they hadn’t captured the manic look in his eyes. Or the accent. God. He had not anticipated on that accent.

Brokeback Mountain had been a  _ very  _ formative influence on his childhood-- and yes, he knows logically that Heath Ledger’s country twang was very much not the same as the fucking  _ molasses  _ coming out of Oliver’s, but. 

He wants to melt into his seat. 

He opens his mouth. Closes his mouth. Clears his throat. Extends a painfully clammy hand toward Oliver W. 

“I’m Percy Weasley,” he says as he tries very hard to click back into normal. He wishes he’d wiped his hand on his slacks first. 

Oliver raises an eyebrow but shakes his hand anyway. “Oliver Wood. You’re real damn formal, ain’t you?” 

Percy tries very, very hard not to make an obvious face at the use of the word “ain’t,” but isn’t surprised in the least with himself when he fails miserably. He knows this because Oliver snorts, leans back in his seat, stretches his legs out under the table with his wrists just barely resting against its edge. 

“Ain’t nothing wrong with the word ain’t, Weasley,” he says simply, slowly, rehearsed. Percy knows he shouldn’t argue, not with the man who has quite graciously offered to save his ass in front of his family. 

But.

“It’s grammatically incorrect and improper,” he replies, though he has the shame to avoid eye contact. 

Oliver snorts again, but he doesn’t seem angry. He just. Snorts. “So your family doesn’t know you’re gay, huh.” It’s not a question and Percy almost wishes it was, wishes he could give off the aura of someone who wasn’t afraid of what his family might say, of someone who knew how to stand by his morals over his career. 

Instead, he nods, forces his leg to go still. “No, they don’t. And they don’t believe I’ll have a date either and I intend to prove otherwise. I’m too busy with work to find an actual relationship, and so, this will suffice I believe.” Oliver is watching him as if he’s from another planet, hints of amusement curling at his lips, crinkling his eyes. 

“So,” he begins, shifts to lean forward and oh, shoulders, very broad shoulders. “I just have to act like I’m your boyfriend for a few hours, we fake a break-up, your family gets proved wrong and no one knows anything different.” Percy nods in agreement. He’s unbelievably glad that despite the grammar flaws, Oliver seems to know exactly what it is he needs to happen. 

Oliver grins and rests forearms on the tabletop, the manic look in his eye not yet gone. “So, how did we meet, darlin’?” Percy blanches, inhales a slow, shaky breath through his nose. 

Goddamn Heath Ledger. 

\- 

**THREE WEEKS**

They aren’t  _ friends _ . Friends ask each other about their days and meet for lunch or at the very least don’t fall into a solely last name basis. But they talk. About football and Oliver’s team-- Percy finds out that he’s an assistant coach for the local college, that he suffered a career-killing injury to his knee before his career really could start. About Percy’s trial and the partners at the firm-- not going well, not remembering his name. They talk about the weather and his family, the upcoming wedding, Percy’s poor dietary habits and nonexistent fitness regiment. But they aren’t really friends. 

Oliver is a means to an end. 

So Percy doesn’t quite know what to do when he gets a text (they’d exchanged numbers so Percy could delete Grindr and clear his conscience) from Oliver asking him to come to his team’s game. Was that something friends did? 

His family knew sports and if he’s being honest with himself, he knows more than he cares to admit. But. 

Percy doesn’t know if he should have said no, if saying yes was the right thing to do, but somehow he ends up in the stands near the field on a Saturday, uncomfortable dressed down in a polo and jeans. 

He’s still overdressed. It’s so loud, warm, crowded. He can’t even see Oliver from his seat and he’s beginning to wonder why he even came. He’d already agreed to be his fake boyfriend for his family and despite his one track mind, Percy doubts Oliver would go back on that promise just because he skipped a football game. 

Or, well, maybe he would. (Percy flashes back vividly to a conversation they’d had two weeks prior about a former buddy of Oliver’s insulting his team and the resulting fist fight that had ensued.) 

He shifts in his seat and away from the very large man next to him who smells very much like corndogs. He tugs at the collar of his polo and scans the cluster of bodies down by the bench again, looking for Oliver. 

It takes longer than he cares to admit, mostly because that would include admitting he took time to find him, but eventually he catches sight of his...friend? Co-conspirator? He’s running along the side of the field, whistle in his mouth. 

And if his eyes linger on his ass for a few seconds longer than strictly necessary, no one has to know. 

After the game (Oliver’s team won 20-16), Percy shuffles down the crowded stands, trying to fold in on himself, make himself smaller to avoid any and all contact with anyone or their sticky children. He’s nearly out of the stands when he hears a shout.

“Weasley! Hey, get your ass down here!” He stiffens, follows the shout down to where Oliver is standing, a wild look on his face. He’s, inexplicably, streaked with mud. He furrows his brow and gestures vaguely between himself and the field, only for Oliver to nod. 

He hesitates, but, well. He needs a fake date still. The engagement party is in a handful of weeks and he doesn’t think his nerves could handle having to find a replacement. So, Percy makes his way down to the field. If he thought he felt out of place in the stands, he felt as if he was in a different world on the field itself. 

Before he can orient himself, Oliver is jogging over to him, that damn grin still on his face. “C’mon, darlin’, come meet the boys,” he says, breathless, and Percy wants to melt from more than the heat. He struggles to find a way to say “no thank you” as Oliver loops an arm around his shoulders and tugs him over to where a few other official looking men. 

“Morris, Johnson, Kent, this is my boy, Percy,” Oliver introduces and Christ. He was very much not prepared to hear him call him his boy. Percy. The men he assumed to be Morris, Johnson, and Kent-- last names, he assumes-- all offer grins and greetings, looking at Percy in obvious scrutiny but what feels very little like judgement. 

But he’s definitely blushing. When the other coaches turn their backs for a moment, Oliver leans in, lips almost brushing Percy’s ear. “Gotta get used to being my boyfriend before I meet your family, right?” He murmur,  and the rationality of it makes Percy feel even weaker in the knees. “Figured meetin’ my friends would be a nice test run.” 

Friends. Did Oliver call all his friends by their last names?

They were friends?  

-

Somehow, and Percy really isn’t sure how, they end up at a bar. 

Oliver, the other coaches, a referee. And he’s once again pressed into a booth, but this time, Oliver’s arm is slung around his shoulders. In his own way, Oliver seems awkward too, as though he’s not used to focusing on anything other than football.

Other than his job.

Percy can relate. 

“Need another drink, darlin’?” Oliver asks, turning his head from the heated debate he’d been in with Morris (or who Percy thought was Morris) over the merits of some play versus another. The rate at which he switches topics almost gives Percy whiplash. 

He looks at his hardly touched beer and shakes his head, clears his throat. “No, no. I’m alright. Thanks.” He tacks the pleasantry onto the end of his words. He’d been dwelling on his case, on his binders, on Vincent’s appointment with the vet in a week, on Bill and Fleur’s engagement party. On how Oliver’s arm on his shoulders felt...comfortable. 

The sports bar is loud, reeks of chicken wings and shitty beer, and the memorabilia all over the walls is entirely tacky, but somehow, he’s almost enjoying himself more than he had with his family. Despite his indifference to the game, he can appreciate the fervor with which Oliver speaks about it.  

It’s...charming. 

Oliver shrugs, gives his shoulder a little squeeze, and then he’s all but shouting about inflated balls? 

Percy knows he should not be charmed. This is fake. The arm around his shoulder is just a ruse. He just figured out they were friends, for crying out loud! 

But.

Percy takes a hesitant sip of his beer. God, he’s touch starved, isn’t he?

He doesn’t move his arm. 

 

-

**ONE WEEK**

Apparently getting a little buzzed on beer at a very loud bar was a sort of bonding ritual between friends. And so, they’ve been talking a more often, sometimes even on the phone. And things are less awkward, less tense. 

Just a little bit. 

But, the trial is killing him. 

“You need to relax. Stress is not your friend, Weasley.” And it’s like he can  _ hear _ the disapproving look on Oliver’s face.  _ Your body is your temple _ and  _ you have to eat more protein _ and  _ a run won’t kill you _ and whatever else nonsense he would usually add goes unspoken.

A pause. “I could help you relax. Probably.”

Percy sighs, presses his phone tighter between his ear and his shoulder, massages his temples with both hands. “I am not in the mood for an ice bath or whatever heinous business you planned on suggesting, Wood.”

No one else is even in the office. They left hours ago, leaving him with a stack of paperwork that would make the Amazon weep. Everything is revolving around the Swinford case but none of the names on the door felt bothered to stay. Typical.

“I wasn’t going to suggest an ice bath. Don’t be a dick.” Oliver clears his throat. “Percy,” a pause, “what are you wearing?” There’s a sort of hesitance to his voice, that terrible, distracting accent slowing his words more than usual.

Percy frowns, furrows his brow, looks down. “I’m at work. I’m in slacks and a button down.” And a sweater vest, but somehow that feels too nerdy to even say  _ aloud _ .

He hears a sputtered, almost laugh on the other end of the line. “Jesus Christ, you’re bad at this. Well, I’m not wearing anything.”

His shirt collar feels a little too tight, neck too warm, mouth a bit dry. Because oh.  _ Oh _ .

He isn’t a virgin. He’s  _ had _ sex. His first time was quick and well planned and he’d made sure he had baby wipes stocked in his dorm for more efficient clean up afterwards.

Every time after, well, it had been much of the same.

But this is new.  

“You aren’t wearing anything,” Percy repeats, slowly. He glances from left to right, making sure there aren’t any stragglers in the office.

This is not a good idea.

He doesn’t hang up.

“Nope,” Oliver pops the “p,” stretches out the word. “Not even a towel. Just got out of the shower when you called.”

Percy sits up straighter, holds his phone to his ear with his hand, presses his back against his seat, picks up his pen because he can’t trust his free hand. “Ah…I see,” he mumbles, his cheeks already burning. “Do you…do you plan on putting anything on? It’s untoward to just laze about naked.”

Oliver laughs something low and breathless and Percy is thinking much too hard on why he could be breathless. “I mean, I hadn’t really planned on it. Do you think I should?”

And he wants to fucking melt into his chair. “No,” he finally says, lower than usual, clears his throat, fiddles with the clip on his tie. “That’s okay.” How long has it been since he’s felt anything like this? Since he’s felt...he doesn’t want to think about how he feels. 

“You would probably feel a bit more relaxed if you were a little less dressed too, Percy.” The way he fucking says his name  _ like that _ is doing wildly uncomfortable things to his lower abdomen. Or amazingly wonderful things. He can’t decide. “Maybe you should unbutton your slacks.”

This is a bad idea. A very bad idea. He doesn’t know why he unbuttons his slacks. Well. He glances down. He’s getting an idea as to why he unbuttons his slacks. “I do, feel more relaxed now,” he says, eyes lingering on his paperwork for just a moment.

“Good, yeah, that’s good, Percy. If I was there, I’d have done it for you. Would be on my knees between your legs. You at your desk?” He doesn’t wait for a response. “I’d probably be under your desk.” He’s sounding a little more breathy, a little more breathless and Percy is weak, half hard and weak. 

They aren’t together. They’ve never… They don’t…. This is new and strange and entirely unexpected but he can’t bring himself to think about that. To overthink the situation. 

“You would, yes,” he confirms and the thought of it, Oliver, tall, broad-shouldered Oliver slotted in the space between his polished wingtips, ducked out of sight from the rest of the office-- he lets out a slow breath, puts down his pen.

This,  _ them _ , is supposed to be  _ fake _ . They are supposed to be fake. 

They aren’t even friends.

Percy wets his lips.

They’re just barely friends. 

“Would anyone be able to see me?”

He shakes his head, pauses. “No. No one would be able to see you.”

And it’s like he can see his grin through the phone and God, his accent is doing wonders at breaking down his self control. “Well in that case, I’d get your cock out of your slacks for you, so you could keep working and everything. Important lawyer business. I bet it’s nice, ain’t it?”

He hesitates. “The lawyer business or my cock?” He hears a snort, trainwrecks forward. “Because I hope my genitals look nice. I’ve never had anyone say otherwise and none of my doctors have ever given me room for concern and ain’t still isn’t a proper word-”

“Percy, shut the fuck up.”

-

**5 DAYS**

They don’t talk about it. 

Percy isn’t sure he wants to talk about it. He’s thought about it plenty in the two days since it happened, mostly in the shower. 

In fact, they don’t talk at all. Not about football. Not about law. Not about the impending party. The radio silence is strange, foreign. Percy had grown so used to having some to talk to that the silence is…

He doesn’t like it. No one in the office notices, but then again, they wouldn’t. They still call him Weatherby. 

But it doesn’t matter, just so long as Oliver is still willing to be his fake date and that’s what he keeps telling himself. He can get through a strained evening-- it would have been strained one way or another. 

But he finds himself almost...missing the conversation. And so when a messages flashes across his phone, he has to scold himself for the way he leaps out of his chair to grab it from the coffee table. 

_ ‘that was really inappropriate of me.’ _

_ ‘the call’ _

_ ‘I was drunk’ _

_ ‘I’m sorry, weasley’ _

He tries to ignore the strange feeling blooming in the bottom of his stomach at the apology. Because he had gone along with the call. He’d done something he could never fully erase from his memories at his desk. 

And he’d been sober. 

Percy swallows, replies. **_‘It’s alright, Wood.’_** Succinct, to the point, non combative. 

**_‘I hope we are still alright for the party this Saturday?’_** And maybe it’s a little crass to ask something like that after an apology like the one he was given, but it’s the only reason they’d started talking to begin with, after all.

Oliver takes a long time to reply.

A very much, too long time. 

_ ‘yeah, course.’ _

_ ‘:)’ _

Despite the smiley face, Percy does not feel reassured. 

-

**3 DAYS**

_ so what should I wear to the party’ _

**_‘It’s going to be a laidback affair, but nice.’_ **

_ ‘So no jersey?’ _

-

**2 DAYS**

To his surprise, Ginny calls him. 

“You’re dating Oliver Wood? As in, the Oliver Wood?” She doesn’t open with a greeting. Percy almost drops his phone. Instead, he sputters. 

He isn’t supposed to  _ sputter _ . 

“You...know?” He says slowly, not quite a question, but not quite anything else. Ginny makes an odd sort of guffawing sound into the phone. He hears something in the background, something vaguely athletic sounding, a thick accent. 

“God,” she says with a snort, “it’s like you don’t know me at all. Of course I know. Wood is a fucking legend! If his knee hadn’t have blown out he’d be the best in the game. And you’re dating him?” 

Percy is shellshocked, rattled, flabbergasted. “You know I’m...you know I’m gay.” This time, it really isn’t a question. 

Whatever Ginny’s doing in the background of the call gets louder, the man shouts. She’s watching a game, he realizes, hears the roar of the crowd. She was at a game.

He glances over at his calendar. Oliver has a game today. 

Oh.  _ Oh _ . 

Ginny laughs, says something garbled to who he assumes is Viktor. “Of course I knew, Perce. I’m not  _ Ron _ , for fuck’s sake. But you’re dating Oliver Wood. Why didn’t you tell me?” 

The relief that washes over him nearly makes him cry. He’s...Ginny knows. Knew, And suddenly the secret feels lighter, just a little. “It didn’t feel important,” he says slowly. It’s a lie and he knows she knows. 

“Whatever, liar. Ron’s gonna lose his shit on Saturday. Anyway, I gotta go. Your boyfriend’s team is kicking some serious ass. Love ya.” And then she hangs up and Percy’s left staring at his phone. 

-

**THE DAY**

_ ‘meeting at ur place?’ _

**‘Yes, we can take my car to my parents.’**

_ ‘Cool’ _

Percy is…

He doesn’t know how he is, not anymore. Ginny knows. He had phone sex with his pretend boyfriend. He thinks he might actually  _ like  _ his pretend boyfriend. This is not in his plans, not in any of his plans. 

He might as well burn his binders. 

He all but wears a hole in his floor while he waits for Oliver, taking precise little steps, in a precise little circle on his rug as he tries to work off his nervous energy. He’s fiddled with his bowtie, his belt, the buttons on his shirt, his glasses, his hair. 

And then there’s a knock and he goes still, a deer in headlights, before shaking himself out of his stupor and making his way over to the door. 

“Hi.” And god, he feels awkward. 

“Hi,” Oliver says in return, hands shoved into the pockets of his jeans, his shirt doing fantastic things to accentuate his shoulders and Percy is a wreck. He’s a wreck. “Could I come in?” He asks, a wry smile twisting at his lips. 

Fuck.

He flushes. Steps out of the way. Clears his throat. 

“About the other night-” Oliver begins.

At the same time Percy says “-you look nice.” He gives an awkward laugh, looks down. “It’s okay, Oliver.”

A strange sort of look flashes across Oliver’s face and fuck, his dimples are more apparent than usual. Or maybe he’s just paying too much attention. “You ain’t gonna be weird about it are you, darlin’?” 

The fact no one else is around to heard the name isn’t lost on Percy. But, he just can’t help himself. “Ain’t still-”

Oliver cuts him off. “You know, there’s record of ain’t being used back in the 1700s and a lot of the stigma around the word comes from the stigmatization of regional dialects prominent in people of color, and besides, ain’t’s recognized in the dictionary.” He looks smug. He looks really, really smug.

Percy doesn’t hesitate. For the first time in a long time, he doesn’t think and overthink and over-overthink. He doesn’t check his binders or debate the best option. 

He kisses him and he’s surprised about it himself. 

Oliver doesn’t pull away. 

He doesn’t know what he expected, but, maybe he could stand to shake a few of his expectations away. 

Maybe he could stand being a few minutes late to the party, too. 


End file.
